


First Meetings

by onecent, ottobarnes



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Annoyed Matt Murdock, Background Relationships, Bartenders give the best advice, Drunk Shenanigans, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Bucky Barnes, Oblivious Clint Barton, Passive Aggressive Bucky Barnes, Pre-Relationship, Totally Platonic Bro Bonding with No Sexual Tension Whatsoever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onecent/pseuds/onecent, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottobarnes/pseuds/ottobarnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton walks into a bar. He snorts as he does so, realizing the joke that the situation is begging for. Hell, the joke that his life is. It’s gotta be a joke, right?</p><p>Neither he nor the guitarist in the corner know what they're in for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint Barton Walks Into a Bar

Clint Barton walks into a bar. He snorts as he does so, realizing the joke that the situation is begging for. Hell, the joke that his life is. It’s gotta be a joke, right? Because if it’s not funny that his fiancee dumped him a month before their wedding and the one-night hookup he tried to find online stood him up at the restaurant, then it can only be depressing as hell. So it must be the build-up to a big joke with a really great punchline. So, he walks into a bar.

He’s looking for a drink, maybe someone to take home for the night. He’s been dumped and stood up, but that doesn’t mean he can’t find someone else for an evening. Plenty of fish in the sea, right? But the bar is pretty empty, so he settles for taking a stool at the bar and ordering a beer.

It’s a hole in the wall dive bar, with the door nestled in an alleyway and no real signs to speak of. Clint wouldn’t have found it himself if he hadn’t heard about it from Natasha, and maybe he shouldn’t be here if he’s looking for a warm body for the evening, but he doesn’t want to go to any of his usual places. Plus, Natasha said the prices were good and the place had live music, so maybe it’ll pick up.

Then he spots the man on guitar in the back corner of the room and realizes that this sort of live music isn’t likely to draw a crowd. The man is sitting on a stool on a makeshift stage. He looks uncomfortable, with his feet pulled up to the highest rung and his shoulders hunched over his acoustic guitar as though he's trying to protect it from something. His dark hair is coming loose from a messy bun, falling forward to brush his cheek. He looks like a street musician who happened to wander into a bar and start playing, worn shoes, dirty fingers, and all.

The musician doesn't stop for commentary between his songs, just pauses, leans back a little, and occasionally tunes his guitar before starting in on the next song without even mentioning the title. It's pretty obvious why this guy is playing alone in dive bars on weeknights - he's got shit stage presence and doesn't interact with his audience at all. Clint isn't even sure if he'd introduced himself at the beginning of his set - it seems unlikely the longer Clint watches.

Yet Clint finds himself still watching. The man may not know how to work a crowd, but damn can he sing. He's good on the guitar, too, but that voice is something else. Clint gets lost in the sound and manages to forget for a minute about why he’s here in the first place. He unconsciously starts humming a harmony line under his breath and his fingers twitch for his own guitar, but he stays instead, enraptured by the music.

Almost an hour later, the man finishes his set with a haunting, heartbreaking ballad that digs into Clint's very bones and makes his heart ache. He doesn't even pay attention to the words - he tries lip reading to focus on the words, but the man's lips are a kind of dusty pink that Clint doesn't have a name for and there's the slightest hint of stubble along his jaw, which is extremely distracting.

Clint imagines for a moment what that stubble would feel like against his cheek, how those slightly chapped lips might feel pressed against his own. A small smile blooms on his face and he can feel heat rising up his neck. He blinks and shakes the mental image, focusing again on the music and the way the man's fingers dance across his guitar.

But really, the words don't matter anyway. Clint’s not even sure they’ve all been English. The man croons softly into the microphone and Clint lets his thoughts drift away and be replaced by pure, raw emotion.

The song ends and the man unfolds from his stool without ceremony, starting to pack up his guitar. "I'm not crying, you're crying," says Clint to no one in particular. The bartender rolls her eyes. "Go over there and talk to him, you big baby."

Clint glares for a moment, downs the rest of his (first) beer, then grins broadly and pushes himself up off his stool. "I think I will," he says, his eyes alight.

The man is putting away his guitar as Clint walks up to him. “Hey,” Clint says. The man looks surprised to see Clint standing there. His eyes go wide and stay that way as Clint asks, “Do you want to go home with me tonight?”

A slow blink is his only response for a moment before the man says, “What?”

Clint tries not to let his internal disappointment show. He half expected the rejection anyway. But maybe he could try a different tactic. “Or we could go grab coffee? Maybe dinner? I actually didn’t eat tonight.”

“Um.” The man is still blinking. He looks a little stunned but manages a small “Yes?”

Clint’s smile brightens. “Awesome! There’s this diner just up the street if you want.”

“Okay.”

“Cool. My name’s Clint, by the way. Clint Barton.” He holds out his hand.

The man stares at Clint's hand for a moment before taking it briefly. "James Barnes," he says.

“Nice to meet you. That’s a really pretty name. Matches the rest of you.” Clint grins and winks.

James just nods and shrugs and turns back to finish packing up his guitar. Clint’s shoulders sag and he lets out a small sigh. By the time James turns again, though, he’s perked back up. It does help that the guy has a very nice butt, even if he doesn’t seem willing to let Clint anywhere near it.

“I’m good,” James says, grabbing his guitar.

“Yeah?” Clint looks around at the rest of the equipment, but it must belong to the bar. “Okay, then. Dinner it is. The place I’m thinking of has really great pancakes, and I’m definitely in the mood for breakfast food tonight. It’s the food of the gods.”

James just nods and follows Clint out the door.

* * *

Bucky stares at the guy - Clint, he said his name was Clint - as he eats. It's quite an experience. He practically inhales the coffee as soon as the waiter sets it down despite it still being steaming hot.

"Aw coffee, no!" Clint laments, his burned tongue hanging out of his mouth. His lips are flushed as he smiles down at his plate of pancakes. Clint ignores the knife and begins cutting through the entire stack of pancakes with the side of his fork. He's still talking - hardly stopped since they left the bar.

Bucky’s hearing, rather than listening. Clint’s voice sounds like liquid sunshine - a lovely, smooth tenor that Bucky wants to wear like a blanket. He’s not sure he’s heard any of the actual words the man has said, just sort of nodded regularly in order to keep him smiling. The first thing Clint had said to him, Bucky hadn’t even heard, but Clint looked so disappointed afterward that he’s decided to just say yes as much as possible. It got him trailing Clint to the diner, and he is hoping that if he keeps saying yes maybe he can follow the guy home.

 _What is he saying now? Something about a circus? Bucky saw a circus once._ "What?" Bucky thinks Clint might have said his name.

"Oh. I, uh, was just asking where you grew up." Clint looks...sad. Just for a moment before that warm smile returns and makes Bucky's heart beat a little faster. He almost missed that sadness, but he has maybe been staring at the man across from him more than is maybe appropriate. Maybe.

"I'm from Brooklyn."

Clint's eyes - blue, very blue, how can they be so blue? - light up. "Really? Awesome! I love Brooklyn!"

Bucky looks down at the food he doesn't remember ordering as an attempt to focus more on the actual words that Clint is saying instead of getting distracted by his face. Apparently Clint moved to Brooklyn a few years ago from somewhere he probably said but Bucky must have missed and now he can't place the accent well enough to figure it out. Clint wanders down another tangent, something about pizza, and then something about laundromats, and favorite animals, and the upcoming heist movie with George Clooney. Bucky manages to respond enough to keep the conversation going, but Clint is carrying the discussion. Bucky lets himself relax into the sound and the easiness of the exchange, enough that he’s thrown off when Clint stutters to a stop and looks down at the napkin he’s worrying to pieces on the table.

“So do you wanna come by the studio tomorrow? Meet the band?” Band? Is Clint in a band? Not that Bucky has much time to think about that because Clint is suddenly standing. Damn. He’s tall. Bucky had forgotten while they sat in the booth.

Clint drops cash enough for both of them on the table, then shoves his hands in his pockets. His face is bright and open, a smile slung across it like an accessory. But there’s something in his shoulders that makes Bucky think maybe there’s more to Mr. Sunshine than meets the eye. He looks...nervous, once you see past that radiant smile of his.

Bucky stands. “Sure. What time?”

“Oh, we usually get started around ten. Here’s the address.” Clint hastily scrawls the street number on a scrap of napkin and holds it out.

Bucky takes the note, glancing down at the atrocious handwriting before giving Clint a small smile. “Ok. I’ll be there.”


	2. Bucky Barnes Walks Into a Studio

No, Clint is not standing in front of the building where his studio is located waiting for short, dark, and handsome to show up so they can meet the band. He’s outside enjoying the sun. It’s a beautiful day and Clint likes the smell of the city, the sound of the cars honking, the ever-lingering possibility of being hit in the head with pigeon poo. He loves the outdoors, and he’s not pacing just hoping that James will actually show up again.

He’s also not wearing his favorite pair of jeans, the ones that hug his ass a little and ride low on his hips, in the hopes that he read James wrong last night and he still has a shot at something more than just dinner. They’re just the ones he found first. Nor is he wearing his old blue t-shirt, the one that brings out his eyes, for any reason other than that it is so comfortable.

When he spots James walking up the street, though, Clint can’t deny the hope that blooms in his chest. A joyful smile stretches his cheeks. He waves, and when James catches his eye he could swear that’s a returning smile that he gets.

“Hey, you made it!” Clint says. He reaches out automatically and has to pause. He met this guy last night - he can’t just reach out and hug him, draw him in close like he wants to. He’s already reaching out, though, so he claps James on the shoulder as a compromising gesture.

James jumps a little in surprise at the contact, though, so maybe it wasn’t the right call. Clint lets his hand fall away immediately, but he’s still smiling. “Okay, so let’s head up, then, I guess. Everyone else should already be here.” James nods and falls in next to him as they head inside.

“So I guess I’ll give you the heads up before we get in. We’ve got Matt, he plays piano. He’s the blind guy. Then Foggy is the guy with long hair, he’s our manager. And Jessica plays the drums. I do guitar and singing, and B--” He cuts himself off. Bobbi’s not part of the band anymore, hasn’t been since she dumped him last week. “And we’re looking for a bass player,” Clint finishes weakly. “Everyone’s really great. We’ll probably be a little rusty, though. We just got off a break from practicing. And don’t ask about a name. We’re still fighting over that while we’re working our day jobs. Or night jobs, mostly, actually. Whatever. Our other jobs.”

James is nodding politely at everything and looking around as they head down the hallway. Clint finally pushes open the door to the studio room they rent every other day to practice and gestures for James to go in ahead.

“So this is where all the magic happens,” he says. And if his eyes linger on James’ silhouette as he walks through the door, he doesn’t feel like he can be blamed.

* * *

Matt taps his fingers absently on the bench in front of his keyboard. There’s less setting up for him to do than there is for the others (no need to tune an electric keyboard), but he shows up early to rehearsals and recording sessions anyway. Even though Clint is habitually late. He’d be late to his own funeral, that man. And today he’ll likely be even worse than normal, seeing as it’s the first session they’ve had since Bobbi left.

The door opens. “Morning, Matt, Foggy. Clint’s not here yet?”

“Hey Jessica,” Foggy replies. “No, he’s not here.” Jessica gives an irritated little laugh.

“Of course not. And wasn’t he on a date last night?”

Matt opens his mouth to respond, but hears the door opening again, much earlier than Matt had actually expected it to.

“So this is where all the magic happens,” Clint says from the doorway. Shit. He’d brought someone with him.

“Hey Clint,” Jessica says, sounding half-curious and half-irritated. “Who’s the new meat?”

“Hey guys. This is, um, this is James. I met him last night.”

Matt knows Clint’s hurting, and he knows that means making some bad decisions, but he had really hoped those bad decisions wouldn’t end up intruding on his own life quite this quickly. “Clint--” he starts to warn.

“Oh god sorry let me clarify - James is a musician! He was playing at the bar and we got to talking after his set and he said he’d like to meet my band, so here we are!”

“Yeah?” Matt asks, worry only slightly dulled. He stands and holds out his hand anyway. “Pleased to meet you, James. What do you play?”

The hand that grasps Matt’s is strong and calloused. “Guitar. Acoustic, mostly. Bass, electric and upright.” His voice is low and smooth. “Didn’t catch your name.”

“Matt Murdock. I play the keyboard. And Jessica’s our drummer.” Matt hears James move towards Jessica and ask her a question as Clint steps towards Matt, tapping absently at the body of the keyboard.

“So, what do you thi--”

“Can I talk to you outside?” Matt asks, interrupting him. He reaches out until he makes contact with Clint’s arm and, without waiting for an answer, drags him out, closing the door behind them. “What are you doing?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re bringing in some guy you just met at a bar last night?”

“I told you, he’s a musician. He even plays bass. He might, I don’t know, maybe he wants to join us!”

“You didn’t bring him here to join the band, you brought him here to show off and try to ask him out.”

“I di--”

“Look, I don’t care what you do with him,” Matt says. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Take him home, wear him out, see him again or not. But if you actually want him to join the band, you have to promise me you won’t sleep with him.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!”

“No, it’s not. We literally just lost Bobbi, and you’re still hurting, and if this guy joins the band and you sleep with him it’s just going to be awkward and we’re going to end up losing him before he even gets settled. So you get to make your decision now as to whether he is your boyfriend or your fellow band member, because he’s not going to be both.”

Clint is pouting. Matt doesn’t need to be able to see to know that much. He’s probably also trying to think of a good rebuttal, so before he can start whining Matt opens the door and heads back inside.

“Everything okay?” Foggy asks.

“Peachy. Clint, did you want to get started?”

There’s a moment of silence, and whatever silent conversation occurs in that moment, Matt’s not privy to it. All he hears is Clint’s small sigh before he asks, “Do you want to join us? I have some sheet music to our songs if you want to play along.”

* * *

Bucky alternates between walking quickly and dragging his feet as he heads toward the address Clint gave him. Part of him wants to see the man, but another part of him is dubious. If Clint was interested, why not invite him to more last night? Was this all a weird set-up? What if he didn't show and left Bucky standing on the street corner looking like an idiot? Or what if he was actually there but wasn't as great as he'd seemed last night and the whole thing was just awkward?

But what if he was there and he was actually that great?

He’s still shuffling when he finally spots Clint standing on the sidewalk and waving him down. And damn, he definitely still looks as beautiful as he did last night, especially with that huge smile lighting up his entire face. Bucky feels the corners of his own mouth lift just in response to all that joy. It’s like looking at a laughing baby - everyone ends up smiling.

Clint’s voice is just as beautiful as Bucky remembers, too. It makes it very hard to focus on what he's saying as they head inside. Damn, that's going to be a problem if he can't get it under control. Before he really notices, they’re outside the studio door and Clint is waving him into the room.

It's a band. An actual band, with instruments and sound equipment and real people. Bucky is forced to admit to himself that until this moment he wasn't really expecting this, though what he was expecting he couldn't say. A private bedroom? A torture chamber? Apparently not a band.

“Hey Clint. Who's the new meat?”

Bucky shoots a glare at the woman by the drum set. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“Hey guys. This is, um.” Bucky looks over at Clint. Has he forgotten the name? No, he just looks embarrassed. Why is he embarrassed? He's turning red up his neck and ears. “This is James. I met him last night.”

Is that why he's embarrassed? He got picked up in a bar last night? Are these people going to be judgmental? And sure enough, the guy at the piano is frowning and saying, “Clint…”

“Oh god sorry let me clarify - James is a musician.” Right. Band. Bucky is meeting the band. They want to know if he plays music. He nods in agreement with Clint’s explanation of their meeting, even if it seems a bit inaccurate, since Bucky doesn't remember ever saying he wanted to meet the band.

Piano guy still seems suspicious. He frowns as he extends his hand. “What do you play?”

“Guitar.” Bucky shakes his hand firmly and keeps his chin up while he sizes the guy up. “Acoustic, mostly. Bass, electric and upright. Didn't catch your name.” He raises an eyebrow and doesn't let go of the handshake.

“Matt Murdock.” The man squeezes once more as he ends the handshake. “I play the keyboard. And Jessica’s our drummer.”

Bucky nods at Matt and looks over to Jessica. She’s started eyeing him up and down. He steps over to her and starts inspecting her drumset. “Zildjian?” he asks. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Gets the job done,” she says, crossing her arms. “What do you work with?”

“I’ve got a Martin acoustic and Lakeland electric bass. Why settle when it comes to music? Something this important, I make sure I have the best.”

He hears the door to the studio close and glances over to see Matt and Clint arguing on the other side of the small window cut into the door. “What the hell?” Bucky murmurs.

“God, all you shitty music snobs types are the same. Going on and on about having the best instrument or the fastest car or the biggest dick. I’m sure it makes you feel real special. Make up for all that sub-par music you play, doing it in your Ferrari?”

The last man in the room, someone Bucky had barely noticed before, stands up. “All right, knock it off. I don’t need to deal with this today. At least have the courtesy to bicker when I’m not in the room.”

“She started it,” Bucky says.

“You were the one shitting on my instrument!”

“Both of you need to stop. This is ridiculous.”

There’s a muffled shout from outside the door, and all three turn to look at the conversation going on out there for a moment.

Bucky looks back at Jessica, and he’s still angry, but he sticks out his hand. “Truce? You don’t rag on me, I don’t rag on you?”

She narrows her eyes. “All right. Truce.” They shake hands quickly but let go as soon as they hear the door open.

“Everything okay?” the last man - Bucky should probably learn his name - asks.

“Peachy.” Matt storms toward the piano, hands stretched in front of him and catching the edge of it. Wait, is he blind? “Clint, did you want to get started?”

Clint looks at Bucky, then at Jessica, then back to Bucky. Bucky drops his eyes to the ground and shuffles his feet for a moment before forcing on a small smile and looking back up at Clint. Clint grins back, and damn. Bucky may hate Jessica, but he sure loves seeing that smile. His own grin grows warmer in response.

“Do you want to join us?” Clint asks quietly. “I have some sheet music for our songs if you want to play along.”

Bucky nods. “Sure. Got something I can play on?”

“I’ve got a bass. It’s nothing special.” Clint shrugs and starts digging in a case in the back. “But I figure we should probably have something just to make sure we can get the sounds right.”

The instrument he hands over is a Sterling, and it’s seen better days. Bucky runs his fingers up the neck to check the strings and spots that one of the tuning pegs has been replaced. The whole thing is a bit beat up, but it sounds okay when he plugs it in and checks the tuning so he just nods and perches on the stool set up by the amp. Clint shuffles one of the music stands in front of him and drops some sheet music, all hand-written and photocopied to hell and back, onto it.

Pretty basic stuff, it looks like, but not bad. Bucky looks through and spots a series of riffs in one piece that he quickly runs through.

“Think you got it?” Clint asks hopefully.

“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Even with that instrument?” Jessica can't seem to help snarking from her corner.

Clint looks over at her about to ask, but Bucky cuts him off starting in on a quick-tempo running bass line from one of his favorite jazz pieces. Then he looks up at Jessica and smirks. “I think I’ve got it.”

He glances up at Clint, who is grinning, and then back at Jessica, who is practically snarling, and a final glance at Matt and the man in the corner--seriously, what’s the name?--who are both sort of rolling their eyes and going back to business.

“Okay, so we’ll go through the songs, and you can kind of play along and get a feel for them. If that’s okay with you, James?” Clint asks.

“Sounds good.” Bucky shuffles through the music again. “Though if I’m going to be spending more time with you, you should probably call me Bucky.” He winks at Clint.

“Bucky? How do you get that from James?” It’s official, Bucky really hates Jessica.

“It’s from my middle name,” he says. “If you don’t like it you’re welcome to stick with James.”

Matt sighs through his nose. “I’m looking forward to this already.”

Clint shows no sign of having heard Matt. He just smiles back at Bucky and flips open the music. “Okay, let’s start with ‘Stifle Me Why Don’t You’ and we can go from there. Jess, count us off.”

Bucky flips through the music, finds the right sheet, and jumps in just in time as the band starts to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your great feedback! Keep checking back to see what happens next.


	3. Danny and Jessica

The band, together now for almost three months since Bucky joined, decides to go out for drinks at a local bar -- Bucky’s suggestion, since he was friendly with the bartender. Halfway through the night, Jessica’s wandered off to hang out at the bar, Matt announces that he needs to use the restroom, and Clint spies a couple of people hanging around the dartboard and excuses himself with a mischievous grin. Bucky frowns and shakes his head while Foggy makes a slight move to stop Clint before sighing and leaving him to his devices. Instead, Foggy turns to Bucky.

“So, you’re willing to stick around, then?” he asks slowly.

“Been here for three months,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Seems like a good place to stay.” Maybe at first he’d only shown up to spend time with Clint and hope he’d get the hint and ask Bucky out, but after a while he’d actually started to enjoy the music and hanging out with the band in general. They were generally pretty cool people, and once he’d settled in people had started to actually befriend him, which was a little unusual but nice.

Foggy nods. “All right, then you’d better know the whole story. So first, I was friends with Matt in college. Then he ran into Clint in an elevator and they ended up talking, and Clint said he wanted to start a band. Matt says that agreeing to Clint’s scheme was the worst decision of his life, but don’t believe him, he could’ve left a long time ago. I’m the one who’s trapped here, by my need to be a good friend. Anyway. Clint was friends-with-slash-dating Natasha, who agreed to come in on drums and bring her friend Bobbi on bass. Then after only a couple months, Natasha left and we got Jessica in on drums.”

“I thought Jessica was newer.”

“Different Jessica. Jessica Jones. And she only lasted for about a year before running off with her boyfriend Luke to go start a family or something equally ridiculous. Anyway, while we still had Jessica One, Clint started dating Bobbi. They dated for about a year and a half, and then when Clint was starting to get serious, Bobbi called it off.”

“Wait, Bobby?” Bucky asks, suddenly intrigued. He hadn’t realized Clint was interested in dating men.

Foggy nods. “Yeah. She is a really great person and super on the bass, though we haven’t really seen her since she left. Not that I blame her. She was right to end it, even if she probably shouldn’t have waited until they were actually engaged.”

Bucky slumps back a little, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face. 

“But when she left, Clint lost it. Way worse than when Natasha left, since they were still kind of a thing until Clint got serious with Bobbi, and always stayed friends. It was real sudden, and Clint disappeared for almost a week, and came back with this awful girl Penny. They were all over each other for a couple days, then she disappeared and Clint pretty much pulled himself back together. A few months later, he met you and now here we are.”

Bucky counts up the time. “So they broke up not that long ago, then. Clint and Bobbi.”

“Yeah. But he’s a lot better now. And this time we’re trying to make sure the personal drama doesn’t mess up the band. You don’t see Matt dragging his relationships into this.”

“Matt dates?”

“Of course. What, did you think we were celibate or something?”

“Um.” Bucky sips from his beer, storing away that _we_ for later analysis. “No?”

Foggy nods and looks away. “That’s cold, man,” he says, fighting a smile. “Well I’ve been assuming you are incapable of getting a date, looking like the pile of punk trash that you do, so I suppose it’s only fair.”

Bucky grins and shoves at Foggy’s shoulder. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry. You are very charming and attractive and I’m sure you have plenty of people just begging for your attention.”

“Thank you.” Foggy lets the smile come through. “And I hope that you someday get over your woeful shyness and manage to ask someone out. Someone who isn’t in the band. We have well established by now that dating band members only leads to trouble. Especially dating Clint.”

Bucky’s smile falters for a moment before he plasters it back into place. “Clint? He’s an asshole and a walking disaster. Plus, even if he weren’t getting over a relationship, he’s not exactly interested.”

Foggy looks sidelong at Bucky. “Uh. Right,” he says slowly. Sarcastically? That can’t be right.

Matt comes back up to the table and slides in next to Foggy. “What’d I miss?” he asks.

Bucky takes a moment to look around for Clint, who has sidled up next to Jessica at the bar. He’s leaning back against the bar, smiling at her, and Bucky feels a twinge of jealousy that he attempts to push away.

“I’m going for a beer,” Bucky says as he slides out of the booth. There’s a good-looking guy sitting at the bar by himself, and Bucky’s pretty sure he’s been alone all evening. He slinks over to the bar, leans in next to Lonely Guy and definitely does not look at Clint down the bar. 

“Scotch, on the rocks,” he says to the bartender, pointedly ignoring the eyeroll she aims at him and laying on the thick accent he learned from his grandmother, “and another round for my friend here.” He leans heavily on the bar, turning to study Lonely Guy’s face. It’s a pretty good face, as faces go, and if it’s not actually the one Bucky would like to be tracing with his eyes at this moment, he gives no external indication of this. 

“Привет, меня зовут Яша.” Bucky pitches his voice low, and Lonely Guy looks up at him, eyes wide. 

“Uhh, sorry, I didn’t catch all of that. I don’t speak, uh...Russian? Did you say...Yasha?”

“Да, my name is Yasha.” It’s not really a lie - the nickname is familiar from his childhood. Bucky grins a little then, a crooked little smile that’s gone over well in the past, and blinks slowly at Lonely Guy. “What can I call you?”

“Uh...Daniel. Danny.” Danny gulps, flushing under the intense, and extremely suggestive, stare. He smiles. It’s a nice smile, Bucky thinks. 

“Привет Дэнни. Пойдёмте танцевать?” 

“What?” Danny asks quietly, staring at Bucky’s lips. The bartender coughs lightly as she hands over two drinks. Bucky takes a slow drink from his glass, licks his lips, and leans in to place a warm kiss on Danny’s cheek, a hand on the other side of his face. 

Down the bar, Clint has looked up from his conversation with Jessica. He frowns before turning back to her.

“Поехали.” Bucky grabs Danny’s hand and leads him out onto the dance floor (which had been completely unoccupied). Danny follows willingly, sliding his free hand around Bucky’s waist. There’s some slow, old-fashioned jazz playing over the speakers. Bucky pulls Danny in close, keeping their bodies flush from shoulders to thighs as they spin and sway around the floor. As they spin, Bucky chances a glance over at Clint.

Clint is pressed up against Jessica now, laughing loudly at something. Probably his own joke again, based on how unimpressed she looks. But just as Bucky turns away, Clint’s eyes dart over to the dance floor.

Bucky presses a smile to Danny’s neck. Then his eyes pass across the table where Matt and Foggy had been sitting. The two are gone, probably heading back home. With Clint caught up in Jessica and himself dancing with Danny, Bucky can hardly blame them. 

“You looking for someone?” Danny asks. 

Bucky pulls back to look at Danny and shake his head with a warm smile. Then he leans in close again, tucking his head over Danny’s shoulder and watching Jessica supporting Clint across the floor, around the tables, and out the door. He shakes his head once and buries his face against Danny’s neck, savoring the touch and the smell of unfamiliar aftershave. 

“Look, I get it,” Danny says after a moment, leaning back to look Bucky in the eye. “This was about that tall blond who just left, right?” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “That a problem for you?” He keeps his voice quiet and low, the accent still heavy. He definitely thought he was being more subtle than that, but he can roll with this.

“Nope. No problems here,” says Danny in a rush, his left hand on Bucky’s back, bringing their chests flush again. _Fuck it._ Bucky reaches a hand up behind Danny’s head, pulling him in for a kiss (and definitely not rolling his eyes at this whole situation).

“Хороший.”

“My place is just up the street,” Danny offers. Bucky nods and follows him out the door.

\---

Clint is standing in the studio tuning his guitar when Bucky walks in, carrying a cup of coffee from the shop down the street and wearing the same outfit from the night before. He slumps over to his own stool and starts pulling out his bass.

Clint coughs lightly and scoots slightly closer to Bucky. “Hey. How are you today?”

Bucky glances up at Clint through his untidy hair. “Fine. And aren’t you looking all fresh-faced and shit.”

“Um...yeah, I guess,” Clint says. He looks over at Matt, who is resolutely ignoring the entire conversation, and Jessica, who looks from Bucky to Clint and shrugs. After dropping Clint off at his apartment last night and forcing him to drink two glasses of water, she’d gone home to wash off the stink of the bar and feed her pets. But they had left together. Maybe Bucky was upset about that?

Looking from Jessica to Bucky again, Clint purposely looks down at his guitar and asks, “So...did you end up going home with that guy from last night?”

“What of it?” Bucky practically snarls. 

“Nothing. I just...he didn’t seem...like...he was your type,” Clint finishes lamely. What was he supposed to say? That other guy wasn't--him? Wasn't Clint? Bucky had gone with some stranger instead of just asking Clint--

“Oh, cause you know so much about my type,” Bucky snaps. He looks up at Clint and quickly away. 

“Well I don’t know! He just didn’t seem, I dunno. Good enough for you.” Clint, catching himself, swallows down his jealousy. He has no claim on Bucky, and no right to say who he should date. What is he doing? Wasn't good enough? Who is Clint to say something like that? When he is...himself. 

Bucky jerks his head up, and his eyes flit over to Jessica. He seems to notice her for the first time today, and he looks uneasily between Clint and her. “What do you care?” he asks.

“Sorry, I guess it’s none of my business. I just, you know. You’re my friend. What can I say, I think my friends deserve the best.” Clint shrugs. And, with the conversation getting a little too feelsy for him to pursue, he clears his throat and says, “All right, let’s start today with working on the chords for ‘Minute Pudding.’”

When they break for lunch, Bucky storms away while everyone else is packing up. Matt and Foggy stick around for a few minutes before peeling off like they usually do. When they leave, Clint turns to Jessica.

“So, uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “Want to grab lunch together?”

She smirks and reaches back for her purse. “Did you have a place in mind?”

He grins. “Not to brag, but I happen to know the best hot dog vendor in the city.” He holds the door open for her. As she walks out in front of him, his eyes drift down across her frame. She swings her hips and glances over her shoulder with a smile.

Clint bites his lip. His brain kicks into overdrive. He was just thinking about Bucky, but he had such a good time with Jessica last night, but he did make that promise to Matt, but did he make the promise about Bucky anyway, and it’s not like he promised to never get lunch with someone--

“Are you coming?” Jessica asks. She’s halfway down the hall while Clint is still standing in the doorway. He shakes his head and jogs down the hall after her.

“Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts for a minute there. I’m good now.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“No.” Clint shakes his head dismissively. “It’s fine. And to make it up, lunch is on me.”

Jessica looks him up and down. “I’m hoping you’re not planning on making that literal today.”

“My luck with hot dogs remains intact so far. As long as we’re not getting spaghetti.” Clint reaches forward to hit the elevator button. “Or gelato,” he adds, musing. “Or, hmm. Let’s stick to hot dogs.”

Jessica is shaking her head and grinning as the elevator doors open. Bucky is slumped in the back corner of the elevator, holding a grease-stained paper bag and a large cup. He looks up, glances between Jessica and Clint, and shoves between them on his way out of the elevator.

Clint and Jessica step into the elevator. As the doors close, she says, “It’s a good thing he’s hot.”

“What?” Clint asks eloquently. “Who, Bucky?”

Jessica rolls her eyes. “Yes, Bucky. The giant monosyllabic asshole you dug up to play bass for us. He plays great and he’s damn good looking, but that man needs some serious lessons in social skills. Do you have any idea why he’s throwing a tantrum this time?”

Clint shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think he slept well last night.”

She snorts. “I don’t think he slept at all last night. You saw the way he was looking at that kid at the bar. He looked like he was going to eat him.” The elevator opens and they step out into the lobby.

“I, um.” Clint blinks hard to try to force that image out of his mind. “Maybe.”

“We should all remember this, though. Apparently, unlike most people, when Mr. Barnes gets laid he becomes more surly instead of less.” The two step outside. “All right, which way to your hot dog vendor?”

Clint shakes his head in an effort to refocus on the current date--lunch. “Uh. Yeah, yeah. Here, just around this corner here.” He steps up next to Jess and slides a hand down to the small of her back, directing her to the corner vendor. “What’s up, Grills?” he asks.

“What’s up, Hawkguy?” Grills says, waving his tongs.

“Hawkguy?” Jessica asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a long story.” Clint pulls into his wallet and fishes out the cash. “The usual for me, and whatever the lady here wants.”

As they step away with their food, Jessica says, “Convenient that the best hot dog vendor in the city happens to be right outside the studio.”

Clint raises a finger to wipe at the mustard on his cheek and swallows his bite. “Not a coincidence,” he says. “Why do you think Matt and I chose to work at this studio?”

“I assumed because it was cheapest.”

“That...is a fair guess to make but Grills here was definitely a deciding factor.”

The two wander into the small park across the street, talking and finishing their food. They end up sitting on a bench under a far row of trees, looking back at the tall building that houses the studio. Clint slings an arm on the back of the bench. Jessica leans back into it and scoots closer to him as they talk.

Clint’s brain kicks up again. Contrary to what Matt says, he spends a considerable amount of time thinking about relationships, even getting into them. He recognizes the opportunity here. He likes Jessica, liked talking to her last night and hanging out with her now. He’s definitely thought about what it would be like dating her. But he’s also definitely been thinking about dating Bucky, and been told not to date anyone by Matt.

Jessica nestles into his side a little more. Clint inhales sharply through his nose. She’s wearing a fancy, flowery shampoo. It smells nice.

Matt technically said not to date Bucky, Clint reasons. And Bucky doesn’t seem interested anyway. He was with someone else last night, and certainly didn’t seem to want to even talk to Clint today. Clint had thought that maybe he and Bucky could be friends even if there was a moratorium on dating, but if Bucky wanted something different he probably shouldn’t push--

Jessica looks up at him. “You’re lost again. I know this may sound strange to hear, but you ever think that maybe you think too much?”

Clint huffs a laugh. “Yeah, sorry. You’re right.” He is thinking too hard about this. He looks down at Jessica, smiling up at him. His thoughts are churning again, but he shoves them down as he leans in, focusing instead on the way Jessica’s eyes flutter closed and her mouth softens as he presses his own lips to hers.

 _What about--?_ his brain tries one more time. He silences it with a _this is good_ , and deepens the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Привет, меня зовут Яша. = Hello, my name is Yasha.  
> Да = Yes  
> Привет Дэнни. Пойдёмте танцевать? = Hi, Danny. Care to dance?  
> Поехали. = Let's go.  
> Хороший. = Good.


	4. Fuckin' Jessica

Bucky Barnes sits at a bar, absently studying the pattern of bottles on the wall in front of him. This particular bar is unfamiliar, but at some point all dives are the same. For Bucky, that point usually comes after a couple shots of gin. He is pretty sure it isn’t his usual place, though, since he was actively trying to avoid anyone who knew him this time around.

“What’s on your mind?” Bucky tears his eyes away from the rows of bottles and notices the bartender giving him a look.

“What?”

“Dude. You walked in, took two shots of gin, and you’ve been staring at the wall like you’re gonna murder it. There’s gotta be something.”

Bucky huffs, glaring at the man for a moment before putting his head down on the bar.

“There’s this guy,” he mumbles, his face smushed against the cold wood.

“Ok, look, I know you’re not _that_ drunk. So there’s a guy. Tell me about him.”

"I just... can’t get him out of my head." Bucky sighs, looking down into his very empty shot glass. “This glass is too empty.”

The bartender gives him a look, but pours him another shot. “What’s your name, anyway?” Bucky asks. “Baring my soul here, think I should at least know your name.” Bucky flashes a usually-winning smile. The bartender raises a single, judging eyebrow.

“I’m Luke. You got a name to go with that liver disease?”

Bucky scowls and holds out his glass meaningfully. The glass remains empty.

"I got a friend like you. Heavy drinker, not a big talker. Mind if I do a little name share? Imma call you Jones."

Bucky groans, lowering his face to the bar again.

“So Jones, tell me about your man.”

Bucky lets out a wail. “He’s not mine.”

“Huh. So, uh, whose is he?”

“Fuckin’...Jessica...”

There’s a slight pause before Luke responds. “Well, that sucks, man. I’m sorry.” Bucky looks up at Luke, sad and a little bit desperate. “What’s wrong with Jessica?”

The sad puppy eyes revert back to Bucky’s standard glare instantly. “She’s just. I...I have to see them together _all the time_. And she sucks on the drums.”

Luke opens his mouth to say something, a brief flicker of confusion passing across his face, then shakes his head slightly. “Is he happy with Jessica? Is he safe with her?”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Jessica wouldn’t hurt him. And he’s always happy.” Deep down, Bucky knows that’s not right. Clint is always _smiling_ , but that’s not the same.

“So tell me about him. Why’s this guy so special?”

“He’s...” Bucky starts, looking up at Luke for a second. “...really hot,” he finishes lamely.

Luke laughs - actually laughs, right out loud, the asshole. “If that’s your only qualifier, then I don’t see what the problem is.”

“He...tells bad jokes.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Luke asks, raising an eyebrow again.

“...yeah. He’s just. A fucking human disaster. A walking trash pile with a shit sense of humor and a voice like sunshine after the rain and a smile that makes your heart ache. Tall and blond and eyes so clear and blue you could just drown in them.”

When Bucky looks up again, Luke is just staring at him, eyes wide. “That was some poetic shit, man. You got it bad.”

“Thanks, I was unaware,” says Bucky, lazy sarcasm unimpeded by his drunkenness. “I write the lyrics. I’ve had some practice with this shit.”

“Ok, look. Mr. Sunshine Trash Pile is your friend, right?”

“Of course.”

“And you want your friend to be happy?”

“Damn straight, I do.”

“Then be happy for him. It sounds like he’s got a good thing going for him, and he doesn’t need you being a jealous shit friend.”

“I--that’s--” Bucky splutters.

“Just be his friend. That’s what he needs from you, I promise.”

Bucky slumps to the countertop again. “That sounds…”

“Good? Smart? Useful?”

“Hard.”

Luke snorts. “Relationships are hard sometimes. If it’s not worth sticking this one out when it’s hard now, it was never gonna be worth it if you were actually together.”

“Ugh.” Bucky sighs again and rolls his head onto his arm. “But if we were dating, there would be sex,” he argues.

“Well, that seems a little presumptuous. And that would make it even more complicated and create more problems you would need to work through.”

Bucky glares up at Luke. “Fuck you. I hate logic.”

“Well, hopefully your dumpster boyfriend will be the one with sense, then.”

“Ha. That would be like...like a piece of...spaghetti. Um. Having. Sense?” Bucky looked down at his hand. Oh. He’s drunk.

Luke laughs anyway, probably at Bucky’s drunkenness. “Then you’d better wise up, Jones. Gonna have to be doing all the thinking in this friendship.”

“Damn. I--I guess you’re right. Fuck.” Bucky plays with his empty glass for a little longer before sliding it across the bar back to Luke, who catches it easily. “Thanks. And um. You can...you can call me Bucky.” He holds out his hand to Luke, who takes it in his own, smiling warmly.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky. Afraid it’s closing time, though.”

Bucky nods, sliding some cash across the bar and tugging on his jacket. He starts for the door, then pauses. “Thanks again, Luke.”

“My pleasure, Bucky. And don’t worry about it too much. Clint’s a good guy, you just gotta wait for him to pull his head out of his ass.” Luke starts stacking chairs on tables as Bucky heads for the door again.

Bucky pauses, one foot out the door. “How did...Clint?”

Luke comes over to the door, switches off the “Open” sign, looks Bucky straight in the face, and _winks_.

“Goodnight, Bucky.” Luke nudges him the rest of the way out the door and pulls it shut. Bucky hears the lock click into place.

Bucky stares at the closed door for a moment. “Goddammit,” he mutters before folding his arms up to his chest and walkin away. “Try to go somewhere there aren’t any nosy bartenders who know too much about my life...next time I'll just go to Daisy and be done with it.”

* * *

It’s the end of rehearsal, and everyone is packing up and leaving. Matt and Foggy have already left. Jess and Clint are about to head out the door, and Bucky calls Clint back.

“Hey, heard you wanted to see that new movie? Uh. Time Travel Jacuzzi 2? Did you wanna go?”

Clint looks surprised. “You actually wanna go? Ok, yeah! The first one was awesome, but no one wanted to go to this one with me. Sure, yeah! That sounds awesome. Everybody tells me I have bad taste in movies, but all I'm saying is that Time Travel Jacuzzi 2 is a piece of art. I'm glad you're finally coming around to my point of view.”

Bucky forces a smile. “Yeah, absolutely. So, uh, I know there’s a showing down at the plex in about half an hour. Are you up for doing something tonight?”

Jessica rolls her eyes. She pecks Clint on the cheek when he looks at her pleadingly. “Go have fun,” she says. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Home?” Bucky asks.

“Oh, uh.” Clint rubs the back of his neck. “Her place. I’ve been sort of crashing there the last few nights.”

Bucky grits his teeth and strains to keep his smile. “Oh, that’s really great. I’m glad you’re happy.”

A small smile grows on Clint’s face. “Yeah? Well I hope you’re, um. That is I. You.” Clint trails off, his smile fading off into a confused and then terrified expression as he loses track of his words. “You said at the plex?” he finishes weakly, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the door.

Bucky punches him lightly on the arm. “Sure thing, ace. You ready?”

“Yup.” Clint opens his mouth as if to say more before closing it with a snap. He tries again a few more times, looking like a landed fish, before managing to say, “Lead the way, partner,” and wincing.

Bucky cocks his head slightly, huffs out a little laugh, and holds the door open for Clint.

They leave the building and start walking towards the theater, moving in relative silence for a few minutes. Bucky doesn’t mind the silence, but Clint seems...nervous.

“I thought you didn’t wanna be friends anymore,” Clint bursts out, looking at Bucky sidelong as they continue down the sidewalk.

“What?” Bucky stops in his tracks, staring up at Clint in bewilderment. “Of course I want to be friends. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Oh. Well I just. You.” Clint sighs heavily. “You barely talked to me for three months. I thought. It seemed pretty clear you didn’t want to be around me.”

“I...talked,” Bucky starts out heatedly, and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look. I just...had some personal stuff to work through. I’m sorry. Friends?”

Clint nods and a smile spreads across his face like a sunrise, slow and bright, and Bucky’s breath catches. _Damn_. That smile will be the death of him.


	5. Thursday Nights

They have an agreement now, Bucky and Clint. Thursday nights are their nights. Time for the two of them to be together. They decide on Thursday nights because that is when the local pub has trivia night. However, after three weeks of going to trivia night and heckling the players and gamemakers without actually participating, they are banned from trivia night and forced to make new plans.

They attempt and discard various other activities including bowling, ice skating, and board games. Laser tag is crossed off the list when they are banned again for being too competitive with the kids playing, and after Clint throws up on the rollercoaster they avoid visiting Coney Island again.

On this particular night they are doing a cooking class. Being the fully functional adults that they are, they sign up for the advanced cooking class, which they will almost definitely get more out of. They pay their $50 entrance fee and show up at the community center a few minutes early to grab a good spot.

Bucky looks Clint up and down. “Did you just buy that apron,” he asks, “or have you always had it?”

Clint’s apron, worn over his purple t-shirt and jeans, is bright pink and says “Hot stuff coming through.” He holds his arms out and grins, spinning to show it off. “Don’t you like it? It was on sale. I thought I should try to look the part. Also I was worried about messing up my favorite pair of jeans.”

“You look ridiculous. Please take that off.”

“No. I’m not giving up on a proper cooking outfit just because you say so.”

“I will pay you money to take that off.”

“Paying money to see me take my clothes off.” Clint raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were the type, Buck.”

Bucky resolutely ignores the heat rising up his neck. “Fine, let’s just go and get this over with, then.”

Cint laughs and follows him inside. They are, unfortunately, not the first people to arrive. They are one of the last groups to arrive, and almost everyone else is wearing a chef’s coat rolled up to the elbows. Bucky suddenly feels underdressed, though at least he isn’t wearing the stupid apron. There are only a couple of tables open, so they slide into one as far back in the room as possible.

The instructor arrives exactly on time and raps loudly on the front table. “All right, everyone. Today we’ll be making boeuf bourguignon.”

“Beef what?” Clint hisses.

“Shit,” Bucky says, looking down at the array of ingredients in front of them. “We might be in over our heads.”

“First, prepare your bacon by cutting off the rind and setting it aside, then slice your bacon into lardons.”

Clint turns a wide-eyed stare on Bucky. “What are lardons?” he asks. “Bucky, what are lardons?”

“Why are you looking at me? English is my second language!”

“But maybe it’s a Russian word?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s French or some shit!”

“Simmer your rind and lardons in one and a half quarts of water.”

“Shit, okay, we can do this.” Clint grabs the frying pan and sets it on the stove, turning the heat on high. “Hand me the water. We are going to make this happen.”

The pair manage to burn the bacon and the beef before getting it into the casserole pan and into the oven, at which point they look at each other and at everything else set on the table.

“Bucky,” Clint says in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’ve already screwed the pooch on this one. I think we should just cut our losses.”

“And what, leave? I paid fifty dollars to be here! I’m not leaving empty-handed!”

Clint’s gaze drifts to the bottle of wine on the counter. “We’re never coming back here, right?”

“Are you suggesting that we get ourselves booted out of cooking class, too?”

“Not without some trophies, I’m not.”

Five minutes later, they are running down the street away from the community center, both clutching a bottle of wine in each hand. They dip into an alley and fall laughing against the brick wall.

“Think they’ll come after us?” Clint asks breathlessly.

Bucky shakes his head. “We paid for this wine. All four bottles.”

“All the same, we should probably make sure they can’t take it back.” Clint waggles his eyebrows. “Got a corkscrew handy?’

“Hold up.” Bucky sets one of the bottles down between his feet and reaches into his pocket to pull out his swiss army knife. He flips it open and hands it off to Clint, who likewise sets down one bottle next to his feet. “Are you planning on drinking all of this? Here, in the alley?”

“Well, not alone I wasn’t. Here.” Clint yanks the cork out of one bottle and passes it to Bucky, who trades off his unopened bottle with the open one. “Start chugging. We’ve got a lot to get through.”

Bucky looks up at Clint. Clint grins as the second cork pops free and then wraps his lips around the bottle and starts drinking. Bucky swallows hard and lifts his own bottle to his mouth. It’s just a drink with friends. He can do this.

But when he reaches the end of the bottle, Bucky has determined that no, he can’t do this. He keeps swaying closer to Clint. He’s trying to breathe in more of his scent, a horrible combination of stale pizza and wine and two-days-past-showering musk that Bucky cannot get enough of. And Clint isn’t helping, laughing and wrapping his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky drains the last of his bottle and decides to just go for it, Jessica be damned.

Then Clint looks down at himself. He starts laughing uproariously and holds up one edge of the stupid apron that he is still wearing. “Hot stuff,” he says, still laughing. “I should take this off.”

Bucky nods. “We should burn it.”

“No,” Clint says, shaking his head and making a face. “What...what is it with you and burning? No, I like this. I’m gonna keep it. I’m gonna keep it safe right, um.” He looks around at the dirty alley and the row of garbage dumpsters lining it. He turns to Bucky and looks him up and down, then looks down at himself. “Um.”

“Oh, give me that.” Bucky snatches the apron from around Clint’s neck and tucks it under his arm with one of the unopened bottles of wine. “Here, open this,” he says, shoving the third bottle at Clint.

Clint stares at the bottle in his hand, then at the corkscrew in his other. Then, seeming to make up his mind about something, he holds them both out to Bucky, an exaggerated pout on his face. “You.”

“Ugh, fine.” Bucky rolls his eyes, yanks the cork out of the bottle, and chugs a third of it before passing it back off to Clint. “M’tired of wine. Need something...” He trails off, watching Clint’s neck as he tips his head back and attempts to finish the bottle. “...Better.”

When Clint finally comes up for air, he’s grinning again. “I’m sure there’s a bar near here,” Clint says, wiping at his mouth with the back of one hand. There’s still some wine left, but only a glass or two. He offers it to Bucky. “You want to finish this?”

“Yeah, why not.” Bucky downs the last of the bottle. He almost chokes on the last swallow but manages to keep it all down with only a minor burst of coughing. “Alright, let’s go.”

Clint nods and pushes away from the alley wall, only to fall back again. “Woah,” he says, blinking rapidly. “Just a minute.” He shakes his head and pushes up again, keeping his hand braced against the wall. He steps to the end of the alley and pokes his head around the corner. “I see...a bright light? That looks promising.”

“C’mon then,” Bucky says, sliding an arm under Clint’s shoulder and supporting him out of the alley.

“Wait, wait.” Clint looks back over his shoulder. Their last bottle of wine is still on the ground where he had set it. “Get that.”

“Got it.” Bucky steps out from under Clint’s arm, watching him for a moment to make sure he won’t fall over before snatching up the bottle. When he turns back, Clint has stumbled around the corner and is lurching toward the bright neon sign flashing in front of them. Bucky jogs forward a little unsteadily to slip an arm around Clint again, this time settling his arm around his waist. They step up to the bar doors together.

“I’m gonna need some ID,” a tall woman asks, raising an eyebrow.

Clint’s hands go to his back pockets. He pats for his wallet. Bucky watches him for a moment before passing the bottle of wine to the hand wrapped around Clint and digging for his own wallet.

“And I’m not gonna be able to let you boys bring that in here.” The woman is looking down at the wine and frowning.

Clint looks down at the bottle and up at the bouncer with wide eyes. “But...but…”

“We paid for this,” Bucky snarls.

The bouncer rolls her eyes. “Good for you. And now you’re gonna have to leave with it or leave it out here.”

“Can...can we leave it with you?” Clint asks. He’s turning on the puppy eyes.

The woman frowns at them both, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Then she sighs. “All right, fine. I still need to see your IDs, though.”

Bucky’s dug out his wallet and flips it open to yank out his license. Clint fumbles with his own wallet for a little longer and slides out his license along with a collection of various other cards.

“Aw, shit,” he says. He hands his ID to the bouncer and drops to a crouch on the sidewalk to grab his fallen cards. “Shit shit shit.”

The woman shakes her head. She takes the wine from Bucky and hands him both licenses. Bucky also manages to hand her the stupid apron that he’s been carrying under his arm. “I recommend the pretzels,” she says. “Before you go for the drinks. And we’ve got a ten dollar cover for the night.”

“Cover?” Bucky asks. He looks down at Clint, who apparently has a gift card or rewards card for every restaurant in New York. There are probably bars elsewhere that will not be charging a cover, but they are at this one, and Bucky isn’t sure he’ll be able to drag Clint much further. He grumbles but fishes a twenty out of his wallet and passes it over.

The woman waves him through to the next table, where Bucky and Clint get their wrists stamped with some sort of confetti stamp that glows in the UV lights.

Clint, wallet now safely back in his jeans, stares up at the blacklights. “Purple,” he mumbles.

“For fuck’s sake.” Bucky manhandles Clint down the hall and through the next door. As soon as they are through, the low thrum of the music becomes almost deafening. There are people in bright costumes everywhere, and Bucky clutches Clint to his side as he takes in the scene.

Clint’s eyes follow someone dressed in bright purple sequins. “That’s a pretty dress,” he says.

“That is a man,” Bucky says, tracking the same individual.

“In a pretty dress,” Clint repeats.

“What the hell is this?”

“Look, they’re singing!”

Bucky follows Clint’s pointing finger to see someone dancing up on the stage in a very sparkly dress. His eyes go wide and he spins to look for the bar. Finding it across the room, he lurches toward it and says, “I need liquor.”

“I want one of the fruity drinks. Something with five kinds of alcohol and a little umbrella.”

“We’re getting whiskey.”

“Look, they have themed drinks! I want the Rum Jovi. No, the Rihanna-rita!”

“Two Rihanna-ritas?” the bartender asks.

“No,” Bucky says.

“Yes!” Clint says. He slaps some cash onto the counter.

“Coming right up.”

Bucky glares down at the drink that gets put in front of him, but Clint is already sipping his drink and moaning in appreciation. Bucky swallows hard once and grabs the drink. He throws it back, not really tasting it, and looks at the bartender.

“Whiskey, two fingers,” he orders.

When a glass slides in front of him, Bucky slams down the liquor. The edges of his vision are growing a little blurry. He turns to see Clint, who is still only halfway through his Rihanna-rita and grinning like an absolute idiot. He’s looking at the stage again. Bucky spins and--

* * *

Clint wakes up lying on soft blue sheets. His head is aching, so all he catches is the glimpse of color before he squeezes his eyes shut again and tries to take stock of his surroundings without the use of his eyes.

First note, he also has to take stock without the use of his ears, since his hearing aids aren’t in. Second note, even if the slight flash of blue sheets hadn’t been enough to warn him that he wasn’t in his own house, the smell of flowery detergent and the feel of the downy pillow and squishy mattress beneath him definitely make him aware that he is in a strange bed. He cautiously sniffs the air to see what he can get beyond the detergent. There’s coffee, somewhere, but maybe down a hall? It’s not close. And there’s...a familiar smell...but it’s covered by the unfamiliar smells of this strange location.

That’s it. He’s going to have to chance opening his eyes again. Just a quick peek.

He looks, then blinks and looks again. Because across from him, lying in the same bed, facing Clint, curled on his side, shirtless, is Bucky. And Clint might have a pounding headache trying to force his eyeballs to pop out of their sockets, but it is definitely worth the cost if he gets a little bit longer to ogle that bare chest.

With a start, Clint realizes that he is lying in a stranger’s bed with a half-naked (wholly naked? What is that sheet covering?) Bucky. And there is a bottle of wine between them. How long has that been there?

Clint closes his eyes again and tries a full body check. He is...sore. His head is pounding and his stomach is churning and he feels terrible. Which is only to be expected, he supposes, since he apparently got drunk enough last night to not remember a thing after...there was some sort of glitter…

His muscles are sore, but no more than they normally are with a hangover. Then something moves against his leg, and with a start he realizes that it is Bucky's leg, and from what he could tell at the touch neither of them seem to be wearing pants. But Clint definitely is wearing his shirt still, and his boxers.

His eyes flicker open again. Bucky is awake. And he looks just as shell-shocked as Clint feels. Oh shit. And now Bucky is saying something, but Clint can’t hear it because he still doesn’t have his damn hearing aids.

“Hold up,” he says, waving a hand. He hopes he’s whispering, but it’s hard to tell. “I need to find my aids.”

Bucky sits up a little and starts looking around, too. Fortunately, the small devices are not hard to spot. They’re on the nightstand next to Clint’s side of the bed, and he grabs them and sighs in relief. He slots them into his ears and turns them on.

Or tries to turn them on. But can’t, since they’re already on. And have been on all night, when he already hadn’t replaced the batteries in several days. “Damn. Damn damn royal fuck with a wooden mallet,” Clint says. He throws his head back on the bed and immediately regrets it when the sensation of his clearly shrunken brain sloshing around in his skull makes him want to throw up all over these nice, freshly-detergented sheets. “They’re out of battery,” he mumbles for Bucky’s convenience.

Bucky taps his shoulder, and Clint looks over at him. He knows he looks miserable, but he just can’t help it right now. Bucky is trying to talk, to ask him something. Clint forces himself to focus on Bucky’s lips in a manner that will encourage lip-reading and not a desire for kissing.

“What happened?” he asks, his eyes flicking up to meet Bucky’s to check if that’s what was being asked. Bucky nods, and Clint sighs. “Hell if I know. I blacked out. But I think we went to a club?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and probably says “I knew that.”

Clint pulls off his hearing aids. They’re not working, so why bother to keep them on when they’ll only make him more sore? But if he isn’t wearing them, he needs to put them somewhere safe. Like a pocket. Like in his jeans. Where are his jeans.

He glances around the room and sees what is probably Bucky’s discarded t-shirt on the floor and a slightly ajar door leading to a bathroom, with a pair of jeans on the floor there. With a herculean effort, he throws back the blankets on the bed and swings his legs over the edge to struggle into a sitting position. The room spins for a moment and he rubs his eyes. When he opens them again, Bucky is standing by the bathroom door, reaching down to grab the jeans. And Bucky is wearing underwear. Clint is not sure he has ever been so happy to see someone wearing underwear.

Bucky throws the jeans at Clint and shuffles further into the bathroom. Clint grabs the pants and slides them on without getting up out of bed. Bucky comes out of the bathroom a minute later with his hair finger-combed back from his face and just struggling to button the fly on his jeans. He bends down to grab his shirt off the floor and tug it on over his head. Clint watches the entire process with his mouth hanging open. He slams it closed when Bucky looks back over at him and jerks his head toward the door.

Clint stands and buttons his own pants while he checks the room again for socks. Maybe at least some shoes? He really doesn’t want to have to leave barefoot. At that thought, he stills. Leave where? He still hasn’t established where the hell he is. Whose apartment is this? It doesn’t seem to be Bucky’s, nor do either of them recognize it. They’ve been in a stranger’s home, and they are about to face that stranger.

He doesn’t see socks. He looks down at his bare feet, which are poking out along with some bony ankles at the bottom of the jeans. Which are not his jeans. His eyes track along the carpet up to Bucky, whose jeans are pooled at his feet and stretched far too tight across his thighs. “Aw jeans, no,” Clint says. “Bucky, we gotta trade back.”

Bucky looks over at Clint and waves his hand in a silencing motion across his throat. Clint sighs and looks around the room again. They’ll have to trade pants later, and boy does that feel strange to think. Clint shakes off the thought and refocuses on his socks and shoes. He doesn’t see his footwear, but he does spot the bottle of wine still lying on the bed. He leans over to grab it and walks over to Bucky. Bucky looks down at the bottle and up at Clint with a pained expression.

“What? I’m not leaving it!”

They step out together into a long hallway. Clint sniffs the air. The coffee is definitely a stronger smell now. Bucky puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder and taps his ear, pointing down the hallway.

“What do we do? Do we just say hi?” Clint asks.

Bucky looks terrified at the prospect. He glances down the hallway again and then back at Clint. Clint checks the hallway himself and spots their shoes down by the door.

“We can’t just leave. This person took us in! And they have coffee!”

Bucky glares at him. Then, setting his shoulders, he starts edging down the hallway. Clint follows slowly. “Bucky,” he hisses, “we can’t just leave.”

Bucky stops and turns, looking right at Clint, and hisses through his teeth something that is probably on the order of “try and stop me.” And with that, Bucky dashes down the remaining length of hallway, grabs his shoes, glances into the room on the left, and freezes, red creeping up the back of his neck. Clint catches up to him and follows his gaze.

There’s someone standing in the kitchen. A tall, somewhat portly, man with curly salt and pepper hair and kind eyes. Darker skin, wearing sweats and a tshirt, bustling around the stove, smiling and chatting away. Not that Clint can hear any of it.

“Bucky,” Clint starts, but Bucky’s not standing there anymore. The front door is open and there’s a flash of familiar hot pink whipping out of sight.

“Shit! Sorry,” Clint says, grabbing his shoes and heading for the door. Wait, he’s still got the bottle of wine. He darts over to place it on the kitchen counter. “Thank you!” Clint runs out the door to catch up with Bucky.


	6. Friday Morning

Foggy doesn’t usually come to practice. He has better things to do with his time than babysit the band members in the middle of their session. At least, normally he has better things to do. Today is a special case.

Matt and Jessica are sitting with their instruments, half-heartedly practicing a few sections of the music. Foggy has settled for sitting on a stool in the back corner with his arms crossed over his chest as he waits for the offenders to arrive.

Bucky finally comes in half an hour late. He’s clutching a coffee in one hand and a greasy breakfast sandwich in the other. His hair is falling all over his face, a sure sign that he’s trying to hide from the light or from people or both. He’s wearing his yesterday’s shirt, and he stinks of alcohol. He shuffles all the way into the room before spotting Foggy sitting in the corner.

“Hey Nelson,” Bucky says, lifting a couple fingers from his coffee cup to wave.

“Did you have a good time last night?” Foggy asks.

“Uh. Yeah. Stayed out a little late. Sorry. I meant to be here earlier.”

“Is Clint with you?”

“No, um. He. He said he couldn’t make it. Needed to go home and recharge his hearing aids.”

“Go home? Wasn’t he already there?”

Bucky winces. “Um.”

“Don’t answer that. Instead, look at this.” He stands and goes over to Matt, who reaches down and grabs Foggy’s laptop from where it’s resting on the floor by the keyboard. “Thank you, Matt.” Foggy taps at it for a moment and spins it around to hold it in front of Bucky.

“Good evening--shit, is it evening? Good morning New York!” Clint’s voice echoes from the computer speakers. Bucky is frozen, staring at the screen. His knuckles go white on the sandwich he’s clutching.

“Whatever, fuck the time. Hello New York!” It’s Bucky’s voice now. “We’re here to--”

“No, no, you’ve gotta introduce yourself! You never introduce yourself. I’m Clint Barton and this is Bu--”

“James.”

“James Barnes, and we’re the lead singers of Calamity Sam, and we’ll be singing ‘All Out of Love’ by, um. Shit. By.”

“Air Supply,” Bucky fills in. “Hit it!”

The Bucky standing in the studio watching the YouTube video whispers, “Turn it off.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Foggy asks, pulling the laptop back.

“Oh my god, turn it off,” Bucky barks.

“No, I don’t think so, we’re just getting to my favorite part.”

Video Clint and Bucky have launched into their duet. They’re doing surprisingly well for being so clearly drunk off their asses, standing in a gay club, crashing a drag show. And they’re getting a lot of attention. Most people are cheering for them, though a couple of drag queens are looking ready to drag them away for interrupting.

“I got an email on our official account this morning,” Foggy says. “Linking me to this video. Since you said the band name, someone looked it up and wanted to make sure we knew you’d made it online. This video already has two thousand views. I keep getting people telling me about it, asking me about it.”

“Then take it down!” Bucky shouts. He lurches for the computer.

Foggy pulls it away. “I can’t. It’s not my video. It belongs to the club and the people who organized the event. All we can do is wait for this to be over with.”

Bucky sighs and sits heavily. A loud rip tears the air. Bucky feels under his thigh and stares wide-eyed up at Foggy, his mouth moving but not making a sound. 

Jessica stands up from behind the drums and looks him over. “Are you wearing Clint’s jeans?” she asks. “Did you sleep with Clint?!”

“I don't--” Bucky starts. “I don't think so?”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Jessica moves away from the drums and comes up to Bucky, her shoulders tense. “What were you even doing last night?”

“We went to a cooking class.”

Foggy snorts. “Cooking what? Wait, nevermind. I’m not interested. We need to talk about damage control.”

“Damage control? I hate to say it Foggy, but this might not be a bad thing,” Matt chimes in. “Two thousand views in one night? People calling us? I’ll bet our actual music is making a bump, too. I’m not going to say no to some actual publicity, not while I’m still trying to hack it as an office temp.”

“This isn’t publicity, Matt.” Foggy points at the screen again, where Clint has forgotten the words of the song and is leaning against Bucky’s shoulder and laughing while Bucky tries to keep singing. “This is making us a laughing stock. We don’t even have a name yet, not one we’ve settled on, and these two idiots go around and make up something from out of nowhere, and now that’s what we’re going to be known by. Calamity Sam, the group of idiots who got internet famous off a bad cover of Air Supply.”

“Uh.” Everyone in the room spins to the door, where Clint is standing and holding his own cup of coffee. He’s still wearing his sunglasses despite being in the building, but he’s at least wearing pants that fit. “Am I missing something?” he asks, looking around the room.

Jessica walks up to him and stands with her arms folded across her chest. “I thought you promised you weren’t going to do anything else really stupid last night,” she says.

Clint flinches at the words. “We went to a cooking class,” he tries.

Foggy turns up the speakers on his laptop and restarts the video, holding it up for Clint to see. Bucky just melts further into the corner, slouching low on the stool and sliding one hand down, probably to feel at the rip in his jeans.

“What the…?” Clint steps up and squints at the screen. Then he finally reaches up to pull up his sunglasses and rest them on the top of his head. “Oh my god. Is that...is that from last night?” He looks for a little longer. “Hey, that’s the guy who took us home!”

Jessica gasps a little and raises a hand to her mouth. Clint quickly turns and holds his hand up. “No, no, not like that. He just...we were...he just gave us somewhere to crash for the night. We um. We were pretty wasted.” He slides a hand up to scratch at the back of his head.

Foggy snorts. “I think we all figured out that you were drunk,” he says. “And now we have to figure out how to clean up this mess.”

“I still don’t think it’s that big a mess.” Matt shrugs. “So we got a weird band name. We’ve been needing one, at least now we can stop fighting over it. I think we can all get used to ‘Calamity Sam.’ It’s a lot better than some of the other things that have been suggested.”

“‘Limp Pool Noodle,’” Bucky says with a shudder. 

“Exactly. And as for the rest, well, they didn’t do anything that bad. They’re drunk, but they didn’t do anything illegal. They got up and sang a song, and not even that badly. They were clearly having a good time, they didn’t start any fights, and everyone even in the video seems to be enjoying it. They’re all having fun. And now we have an extra two thousand people who’ve heard about us. Maybe more. We could probably do a real cover of the song, you know, go talk to some people and make sure we’re clear for it, and sell it as a single. Might even be a hit.”

The others in the room stop to think over Matt’s suggestions. They don’t actually sound half bad, though Foggy acknowledges that Matt was trying to become a lawyer, so he’s immediately suspicious of any sort of rhetoric that the guy might be trying to pull. But even after he’s thought it over for a while, Matt’s points still hold.

“So this was...not a disaster?” Clint suggests slowly.

Bucky perks up a little from his corner. “We actually have a fan base?”

Foggy sighs. “It seems to be made up mostly of drag queens, but yes. It looks like we have a fan base, and maybe you two idiots didn’t screw everything up. Though I still think you’re going to need a chaperone next time you go out together.”

“Nothing happened!” Clint protests. “We went to the cooking class, burned some things, stole some bottles of wine--”

“You did what!” Foggy shouts.

“--crashed a drag show, and got taken care of by a nice drag queen.”

Jessica groans. “If we ever get asked about the band or any of our music, I vote that Clint isn’t allowed to speak.”

“That is something I will agree to,” Matt says.

“Same.” Foggy finally closes his laptop and rubs at his eyes. “All right. I’m going to see what I can do to straighten this all out. We’ve got contract names to adjust and our business cards, plus we’ll have to relabel our old things...and while I’m working on that you all will need to look into doing a cover of ‘I’m All Out of Love.’ So you might as well get back to work.” He heads for the door.

Just as he’s leaving the room, he hears Clint behind him saying, “Aw, no, Bucky! Those are my favorite pants!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, and it took a little while we know, but hopefully we can get the final chapter up for you soon. Thank you to everyone who has followed along so far, especially those who have left comments and kudos. Your feedback is great to look forward to.


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